


Rafferty Conlan's Journal

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Aidan-verse 3: Aftermaths and Other Tidbits [5]
Category: Forever Knight, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aftermath of the line war from the POV of someone on the other side. Consider it a quasi-sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/290445">Nosferateu</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rafferty Conlan's Journal

**Author's Note:**

> Rated: Mature for nightmares and very buried PTSD. I'm almost feeling guilty about this boy, and who'd have thought I'd say that about Owain Rhys-Tewdor's line?

Paris, France -- Dec. 28, 1999

I wake up like this a lot. Heart pounding, skin soaked, and the small hairs at the back of my neck standing on end. It's not the only part of me that is. Hairs on my arms up, and my dick hard as hell, and at the same time my hands already reaching for my blade. Eyes wide open, looking for something I can't see. I keep a light on when I sleep now, and it's not just to make sure I see where the sword might be coming from.

It's never a dream, or if it is, I don't remember it. That's really terrifying. The dreams I do remember are bad enough, but this isn't those. I don't know what the dream or dreams is, but it's just not the same. Like not knowing leather from denim with my fingers in the dark. That different. Unmistakable. But if my usual dreams are acid-wash denim, and sometimes the acid's burned all the way through, this dream is leather from something that's not alive anymore. Sharkskin, maybe. T Rex. Or those fucking raptors from Jurassic Park. Yeah. Like that. Old and fast and sleek and smart. Cooperating to make you scream your throat raw while they peel the flesh off bones.... No wonder I wake up like that, if that's what I can remember.

The regular dreams... they're not the reasons I'm afraid. They should be, though. Most of my line's gone. Wiped out, dead, ex-line, feet up or at least heads flown off their shoulders. Forgot the last syllable and opened the book anyway? Fuck, I don't know! What I do know is that someone managed to kill Owain. And Johannes, and my teacher, Enrique. It left me rich -- Enrique made me his heir -- but it scares me. A lot. 

Who could do that? How? I fought Owain twice. Both times I ended up on the ground with a sword at my throat. I never had a chance, although the second time I lasted longer. Long enough, I guess. Oh, I know what happened to Henslowe's student. Mark, I think his name was. We only talked twice. My age, about. Nice guy. I think that was the problem, as they saw it. I hope it was at least quick.

Enrique thought the Game was an invention of the devil some days. Other days he saw it as God's will, us against Satan's agents. Those were the bad days, when he raved about 'giants among men' and 'nephilim' and 'daughters of man' and 'sluts, destroyed by the pure light of the angels.' Enrique was scary enough when he was praying. When he was raving, I kept my damn head down, all 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and studied the Bible so he'd leave me alone. I can recite it cover to cover. In Latin. Only Latin I know, but it's plenty.

Enrique's gone, though. He never showed up after the line war. I didn't keep in contact with many of the line, but I know a few things. I knew where they were based. I know how to hire investigators, what explanations to offer. Lim waited half a year, but he showed back up in Hong Kong, shut down his businesses there, and vanished again, taking his money with him. He didn't leave any information for the rest of us anywhere on the Web, either. At least, none of the usual word combinations struck gold on Google.

Farrell shut down his place in Lausanne by phone. I'd think he was dead and someone got tricky except his gallery ran a new exhibit of his photographs nine months later. He's somewhere in the Deep South, or was. I don't know if he's still there, but I know Savannah when I see it. It was a really good exhibition. I was scared he'd show up, the entire time, but the photographs were gorgeous. Anyway, I'll stay out of the South anytime soon. I never could figure Farrell out. I think he liked me, in a distant, pitying sort of way, but I'm not going to bet my head on it. He didn't put out word either, after all. 

But... that's it. No sign of the others. I'm going to quit paying the investigators after this week. Just no point. There were never many of us -- no great loss, honestly. I mean, Damita watching me that time could have inspired the Raimis to one more Ash movie, just to watch her completely screw up his life. Why did I just shiver? Not just Damita. And I love _Army of Darkness_ , but wondering what kind of undead.... God. I hate those shudders. Hate anything that pulls my shoulders back like that, rustles down my arms in goose bumps and leaves me sure I couldn't block or strike fast enough for just a moment.

I loved horror movies. Vincent Price, Christopher Lee, Vampirella, Bruce Campbell, Boris Karloff, Wesley Snipes -- all of them. Good, bad, trashy, classic. I'm shuddering again? And why did I only list the vampires? 

How long 'til sunrise? And how much coffee do I have in the kitchen?

Enrique gone. Damita. Bianca, and Jirina. Will and Johannes. Someone killed Erik, too. During the truce. So, maybe line Ramirez. Maybe not. 6' 4" and solid muscle and... how? Henslowe's gone, vanished before the war began and hasn't shown back up and he was a cold, calculating son of a bitch. Second only to Owain. Who the hell could do that? What did Owain expect me to do if I ran up against people who could destroy them? Good thing there was no one at that bar, but... Christ on a crutch. I'd have been easy meat.

I keep thinking I'm going to be doomed. I mean, I practice. I stay in shape. But... I don't sleep for shit a lot of nights. It'll kill me one day at this rate. I thought it had today. They only nodded at me. Traveling together, arm in arm like they were lovers or something. How can you sleep with someone who knows how to take your head? Does it add a major adrenaline edge to the sex? Or were they just staying in character? Hell of a security blanket, to have someone else to watch the door occasionally, I guess. Not worry about taking a shower, or getting caught sitting on the john, pants around your ankles...? Might be worth the risk.

God, I'm tired. I've watched the moon across the sky the last three nights. Wonder if sleeping in the daylight would be easier? Hope the estate agent's been able to find some old churches for sale. Daylight, or holy ground, I've got to sleep soon. 

If they were wrong about immortals getting along, does that mean they were wrong about us not needing shrinks? Wonder if I could trust one to help me find out what I'm so scared of? 

No. One slip about 'swords' and 'duels' and I'd be in a soft, padded cell while they fed me blue and purple pills. I don't think so. God. I need some help from somewhere, though!

I never thought I'd miss Enrique.

_~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~_

**Author's Note:**

> _Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:_
> 
> For the curious, or those simply trying to place him: Rafferty is the immortal who assaulted Tracy Vetter in The Raven. Look towards the end of [Nosferateu](http://archiveofourown.org/works/290445). The two immortals Rafferty saw together were, I think, the Valicourts, but if you have another couple in mind, that's fine too. And the pop culture references are Monty Python and the movie _Army of Darkness_.


End file.
